


watch as we come undone, knowing that we'll be all right

by spells



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Teens being teens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:59:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spells/pseuds/spells
Summary: "We could set the world alight," Kuroo says. The glint in his eyes shows he means it; he can see it, already, and it glows orange in his irises. "We could do it, if you wanted to."





	watch as we come undone, knowing that we'll be all right

**Author's Note:**

> title's adapted from with confidence's "we'll be okay". this fic was written platonically but can perfectly be interpreted as romantic—it's up to you.

"We could set the world alight," Kuroo says. The glint in his eyes shows he means it; he can see it, already, and it glows orange in his irises. "We could do it, if you wanted to."

*

By the time Kenma's old enough to form an opinion of people when he meets them, Kuroo's been in his mind for years.

Today, there's a picture of them in Kenma's room, one that his dad took all those years ago. It's from his birthday, the first one he spent with Kuroo; his best friend has whipped cream on his forehead, in bliss oblivion, and the camera caught Kenma just right, so that one can see how his big, child eyes look at Kuroo in misunderstanding.

Today-Kuroo drives a broken-down Honda, a hand-me-down Honda, and his smiles gleam like clouds on the wind-shield. His eyes are sharp enough to cut skin, but there's a softness to him that doesn't show—no matter what, or how long goes by, he still smells like his mother's softener. Today-Kuroo crosses downtown streets at one in the morning, sings along to pop punk and metal and orders one, two, three rum shots, but he also has leaves in his hair, and picks out the colours in his froot loops.

Kenma isn't sure whether he understands him any better, now, than he did, back then. No matter how long goes by, no matter how much he knows, it just seems like there's a deeper hole to dig. Sometimes, he thinks that's exactly why they're friends, why their friendship didn't grow cold like so many others did—because Kenma likes understanding people, analysing them until he figures them out. Because Kenma becomes bored of people who he has down to a pattern, and Kuroo just isn't one of those people yet.

When Kenma wakes up on a Saturday morning, lazy sunbeams peeking through his blinds because he forgot to close them all the way— the first thing he hears is Kuroo's laugh, coming from the kitchen, talking to his mum as if she's his own.

That's how he knows he's home.

*

Kenma doesn't ask questions.

When Kuroo honks his squeaky car horn in front of his house on a Sunday afternoon, Kenma doesn't feel a need to question him. He nods a goodbye to his dad, who barely bats an eyelash, grabs his jacket and climbs into the passenger seat.

Kuroo doesn't say anything.

He raises the radio volume high, bass blaring out the speakers so hard they rattle. He's wearing sunglasses, those horrid lime-green aviators that have always been a creepy presence in his room. That's enough evidence to know that everything's wrong. He speeds down the street, the car wheels pushing fresh dead leaves to the curb, the wind hitting both of them in the face. Kenma puts his hair up with an elastic, because he doesn't feel like dealing with it later; he hugs his knees against his chest, and Kuroo doesn't complain about shoes on the seat.

They only stop once neither of them know where they are.

*

He overhears from a couple of his classmates, _What do you think of Kuroo Tetsurou?_

Kenma thinks, neon lights, chipped nail polish, clear glass beer bottles—Coronas, or anything he manages to buy. He thinks, his face smushed against his dark blue pillow, his hair sticking up against his white one. He thinks, the way he looks when the setting sun comes through the gym windows, and hits him in the face; the way he squints, whole face lit up golden, but keeps playing just as flawlessly.

He thinks, that picture on his bedside table, whipped cream, big eyes. He thinks of wonders, of growing old, of knowing the world. He thinks of crossroads and stop lights and street signs.

*

Kuroo's the boy who could win over the world.

Smart, kind, giving, athletic, handsome. He's the college-ad, the front-cover, the headline boy; every parent's sweetest dream, every teacher's biggest pride.

Ah, yes, Kuroo.

He hisses "five-second rule!" and picks an Oreo up from the ground, stuffing it whole in his mouth. (Kenma watches in horror.) He jumps on top of his own peacefully sleeping best friend at exactly six forty-five in the morning, as if he wasn't a 170 pounds bag of bricks—realfeel, 205, or 370 depending on the day of the week. By the love of God, he swipes Kenma's phone and takes hundreds of highly unflattering selfies that he knows Kenma will never bother to delete, selfies he ends up deleting himself just 'cause of the guilt.

And yet, and yet. He could still, will still, win over the world.

Kenma rests his chin on his hand, and watches.

*

Kenma doesn't know when it started. It's just always been this way, as long as he could make something of it.

It's always been him and Kuroo mutually sticking up for each other; against everyone and against themselves (inner demons, his young self liked to think; he read that in a book once, and became fascinated with the term. Kuroo took it too literally when he first heard of it). They've always been a unit, a combo, a BOGO deal. There was no such thing as separating them, for a few years in their lives. They were a duo, always.

It's never been like it was with other kids, either. Other kids had a handful of best friends, had a group to spend recess with, had holidays stories and sleepovers.

Kenma and Kuroo knew the other's house as if it was their own; they were family, not just friends. They were everything for each other, the whole world. There's no them versus the world when the world is theirs.

It rained overnight, so Kenma's patchy backyard is now a mess of mud and vibrant spots of grass. Kuroo, young Kuroo, ten-years four-months and seventeen-days old Kuroo, with above the knee shorts and Power Rangers band-aids, looks at him with the sky in his eyes. He has a stick in his hand, and carves a circle through the mud, big enough to fit both of them standing on it, but not much else.

Kenma doesn't have to say anything, doesn't have to ask what that is or what that means. Kuroo looks up from his circle, and answers.

"Whenever you feel sad, whenever something bums you out or you feel like you can't take it, come here and let it all out. This, this is our magic spot, Kenma. The only place where we'll ever be weak. Because from here on out, we own it all."

Nine-year-old Kenma still thought Kuroo was crazy. Beyond his comprehension crazy.

He was right about their magic spot, though. It never fails to make Kenma feel strong again, when he needs it most.

*

Sometimes, when Kenma can't sleep, Kuroo wakes up.

Kuroo's not a light sleeper. That he knows for sure; if Kenma's figured out anything about his best friend as long as he's known him, it's that he's a heavy sleeper. He snores, tosses and turns, but doesn't wake up no matter how loud you are. Still, somehow, he wakes up when it's one in the morning and Kenma hasn't fallen asleep yet. He wakes up when it's a quarter past two and Kenma lies in Kuroo's pull out bed, quietly playing something on his phone. He wakes up when it's almost three a.m. and Kenma sits still on the mattress, looking out the window at the occasional passing cars. He wakes up when Kenma can't sleep, like he has an internal alarm blaring, like he has a sixth sense for it, like he can tell something's wrong with the world.

He wakes up, yawns, rubs his eyes. Usually, he doesn't sit up; he just rolls off his bed until he falls on Kenma's. Kenma puts away his phone and looks at the long-legged, messy-haired boy that has just pushed him forty centimetres closer to falling off the bed. Kuroo opens his eyes, blinks a couple of times, and looks into Kenma's. They're what, a dozen centimetres apart? If it wasn't so dark inside the room, Kenma would be able to count Kuroo's eyelashes. There's a slash of orange light across his face, due to the lampposts outside, and he wonders if his skin looks anything like Kuroo's under the artificial lighting.

"Why are you awake?"

Kuroo always asks that, always hopeful that there's any reason that he can solve simply and effectively, with a glass of warm milk or counting sheep. Kenma always answers, "Can't sleep."

"C'mon, you will now. Shuffle over," Kuroo gestures, and pushes him another bunch closer to falling off. Kenma rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything.

He doesn't say anything, because feeling Kuroo's chest rise and fall, in a pattern, always helps. It calms his mind, slows his thinking until he's slurry and sleepy.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when they're both half-awake and mostly unconscious, they'll roll around and end up facing each other. Kenma will slide closer, rest his head on Kuroo's shoulder; Kuroo will wrap his arms around him, protectively, and they'll sleep just like that.

*

**from: kuro, 17:16**

where are u

**from: kuro, 17:16**

where

**from: kuro, 17:16**

kenma

**from: kuro, 17:17**

kenma

**from: kuro, 17:17**

kkenma

**from: kuro, 17:17**

kwnma

**from: kuro, 17:17**

kenmamaaamannnnamana

**from: kuro, 17:17**

kenmakenmakenmakenmakenmakenma

 **from: kuro, 1** **7** : **19**

k

**to: kuro, 17:49**

omw

**Author's Note:**

> new name, but i'm back. i have a lot of projects in the works, so i hope you enjoyed this one, there's more to come. leave a kudo, a comment, a bookmark, or whatever u feel like—you can also come talk to me on twitter @cavietown and we can be friends


End file.
